


Close to the Chest

by nymja



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enough,” he finally says, and it hurts to say enough. It hurt before. It hurts every time. Because he’s wearing a tunic with no sigil, and this time it seems as though neither of them belong to anything but each other. And that thought is so good, so comfortable, and so happy that he can’t hold on to it anymore or he’ll keep it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to the Chest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starforged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/gifts).



> Originally posted/written on tumblr for the prompt "I think you missed your calling."

He hears her laughter, but Cullen doesn’t have the luxury of turning from his task. Held out as far as his arms can extend is his son, Gavin, screaming until his face goes purple. The toddler wriggles like a worm on a hook as Cullen attempts to get him to sit in his bath water, tiny hands with disproportionate strength grabbing fistfuls of Cullen’s curls and  _tearing._

“Enough,” he grits between clenched teeth as he feels his hairline recede. Tacking on a, “Please,” because it’s important to treat delicate situations with respect. Especially when the opponent has the tactical advantage.

She laughs again, and it’s almost pleasant enough to counteract the pain of his scalp, “I think you missed your calling.”

Gavin tries to bring tiny legs up to kick his father in the face.

Cullen sighs, but finally situates his son in the tub, using one hand to pin him down and another to dump a bucket of water over Gavin’s head with no small amount of triumph. “I think I’d rather go back to fighting-“

He frowns, the thought catching mid-stride. But before Cullen can reorder his contemplations to vocalize what it is he’d rather be fighting now, Gavin starts to cry again.

“Here, let me.”

Cullen exhales in relief, shoulders sagging as his wife takes his spot. Almost immediately, Gavin stops his screaming to look up into Amell’s eyes. And Cullen can’t blame him. Because Amell can make him speechless, too.

The battle seemingly won, Cullen goes to lean against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. His tunic is water-stained and toddler-torn. But it’s comfortable. And, seeing Amell in her equally plain tunic, humming lowly to their traitorously complacent son, it’s also happy. It’s the happiest he’s ever been, really. Especially since…

He closes his eyes.

Especially since. Before.

“Cullen?”

He frowns, not opening his eyes, “Amell?”

“Last I checked,” he can almost hear the smile on her lips. Can hear her voice the same way he’s heard it countless of times before. Where he’s heard it in the library, when he was reading over her shoulder. In the training room, where the cackle of lightning and the hiss of fire made him almost have an anxiety attack because they were always so very  _close_ to her when she summoned them. When he was able to muster a hello in the halls before she was off again with that other apprentice. Jowan. Whose presence most certainly  _didn’t_ cause his heart to twist in his chest whenever he walked next to her, when Cullen was stuck as a sentry outside of her room and only able to watch her walk away, “Are you feeling alright, love?”

It’s such a beautiful word. Even more beautiful said in that voice. And some part of Cullen, deep down, knows he’s never heard it from her before.

“Cullen,” her voice is a whisper of concern, “How hard did he pull on your hair?”

Gavin whimpers from his tub. Cullen fights the urge to go over and pick him up. But he can’t. He can’t open his eyes.

“Enough,” he finally says, and it hurts to say enough. It hurt before. It hurts every time. Because he’s wearing a tunic with no sigil, and this time it seems as though neither of them belong to anything but each other. And that thought is so good, so comfortable, and so happy that he can’t hold on to it anymore or he’ll keep it.

“Enough?” She sounds hurt. And it is, it really is in that same voice. The one that thanked him for watching over her during the Harrowing. The one that told him he was saved. Cullen feels her hands, warm from the water of the tub, ghosting over the side of his face. Her thumb traces the ridge of his cheek. The curve of his lips. He wants to keep this, if only for another moment.

But he won’t.

Gavin starts screaming again.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen whispers, because he apologizes every time.

And whatever is wearing Amell’s face must know, because her voice takes on a note of panic, “Love-“

Cullen moves, and suddenly he’s not wearing a tunic, but armor, battle-dented and Templar-issued. And instead of holding a squirming toddler in his hands, he’s holding a sword.

She screams his name, before he brings it down with a smite.

—

When he comes to, he’s lying beside the camp’s fire, and the dwarf is looking at him like he knows something.

Cullen exhales, closing his eyes, “Yes, Varric?”

The dwarf shakes his head, “The Desire ones sure have it out for you, don’t they?”

He inhales slowly through his nostrils. Feels Amell’s hand on his skin. Hears her scream. “They always have.”


End file.
